


space soap operas prepare no one for this

by Hectopascal



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Aliens with Suspicious Fruit, Bodyswap, Crack, Gen, Never Trust Black Pineapples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:30:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2097435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, the important thing here is not to panic,” said Peter, trying to sound like he was in control of the situation when really he was having trouble looking at anything except his own cleavage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	space soap operas prepare no one for this

“Okay, the important thing here is not to panic,” said Peter, trying to sound like he was in control of the situation when really he was having trouble looking at anything except his own cleavage.

It was very nice cleavage actually, lovely and round and a deep foresty green. They were normally Gamora’s and Peter had never appreciated them quite so much before. He wondered if she’d break his fingers – her own fingers, or his once they’d managed to reverse this – if he copped a quick feel. In the name of science.

And the whole multiple orgasm thing definitely merited investigation if this looked to be a long term affliction. He’d ask first, of course, rude not to. Maybe Gamora would be interested in watching. It certainly wasn’t something you could do every day, but then she currently inhabited _Drax’s_ body and Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

It was a tossup between creeped out and turned on because on one hand she was somehow even more terrifying (something Peter hadn’t thought physically possible) when she had an extra hundred pounds of muscle and a face whose neutral expression made Drax look like a manic serial killer. Which. Well. He kinda _was_.

Then on the other hand—Drax. No _thank you very much._ Peter loved the guy really, but there were just some places epic broship was not meant to go and the bedroom for kinky self-voyeuristic/exhibitionist experimentation was one of them.

Alas, his fun sex fantasies were cut short by Rocket banging his head on a low-hanging beam he’d never had to notice before. Again. Making, what, five times?

“Hey, watch it,” Peter called, marveling anew over his voice, wow, it was impressive. All smoky and mysterious and burning like lava _hot_. He could have terrible naughty fun with it, but he wasn’t going to because he respected Gamora far too much for that. Maybe, if he repeated it often enough, the temptation would appeal less. Somehow he doubted it. “That’s _my_ head you’re bruising.”

Rocket scowled down at him and that was another weird thing on top of an avalanche of freaky. Peter didn’t know how much he liked being tall until he wasn’t anymore. Similarly, Rocket seemed to favor his own midget – sorry, perfectly reasonable and compact – height.

“You’re complaining?” Rocket bitched at him. “Look at you, so you lost your dick, so what? How am I supposed to work with these?” He flapped his hands to demonstrate. “They’re too big and soft and clumsy. How am I going to work with delicate bomb innards? Where are my claws? Why are your nails so weak and pathetic?”

“My hands are not clumsy or soft,” Peter protested, purely out of argumentative habit. And having big hands was considered a very good trait, thanks, he’d never had any complaints before. “They are ruggedly calloused and _I_ don’t have trouble working on machines.”

“Can’t build a moon destroying explosive device, ain’t good with mechanical know-how,” Rocket muttered sullenly. God, did his face really look like that when he pouted? It was awesomely effective, he should do it more often.

Peter threw his hands up with exasperation and accidentally banged his wrist against a protruding pipe that he really had been meaning to fix.

The pipe – made of a combination of metallic alloys designed to withstand prolonged space travel – caved inward with an ominous crunching sound.

Peter flexed his – Gamora’s – super enhanced wrist back and forth. No pain. Well then.

Gamora looked up from where she had been sharpening knives for the past half hour. She’d done all of hers and then moved onto Drax’s because they were apparently shamefully dull and he wasn’t fit to protest.

Peter thought it might be a Happy Puppy comfort blanket thing, but he wasn’t sure.

This was partly because it was Gamora, infamous assassin with a heart bigger than all the rest of them (except, perhaps, Groot), and partly because Peter had difficulty recognizing that kind of behavior when he saw it.

After all, Yondu had been the one to comfort _him_ when he was upset and hideously off balance, which had been quite often in the beginning days of his pseudo-captivity-slash-abduction, and what the man had lacked in skill, he made up for in creativity and enthusiasm.

Peter would never have the same level of entirely appropriate fear of the Whistler as the rest of the Ravager crew because a majority of his memories connected to it involved Yondu tapping him on the head with it and then making it glow and do light shows until he stopped crying for his mom.

(There was also the Troll Incident which was never mentioned by any parties ever on pain of death.)

“Quill,” Gamora said in Drax’s dangerous rumble. “Cease your attempts to damage my person.”

“I wasn’t—,” Peter sputtered. “I’m not trying to damage your person! I like your person!”

Rocket snorted. “Oh yeah. We know.”

“Not like that, okay, a little like that,” Peter corrected hurriedly when Gamora narrowed her eyes. “I think you’re amazing, but can we please focus on the actual problem here, please?”

“I am Groot!” Drax exclaimed, waving his arm stalks in Gamora’s direction.

He hadn’t figured out how to grow tendrils to steal his weapons back yet and Peter was sort of dreading the occasion should he manage it. Sharp blades combined with delicate plant parts did not seem like a beneficial arrangement for anyone.

So it turned out that the three words (or four if you happened to be an amazing sentient tree like their Groot) in that exclusive order was a species thing. Who knew?

It also turned out, not that Peter was all that surprised, that Rocket spoke Groot only when Groot was speaking it.

Which meant Drax was basically screwed in the communication department.

“Come on, man, she’s making them better for you.” Peter took a stab in the dark.

Drax scowled. It was a magnitude of sick how much less frightening it was on Groot’s tiny baby tree face. Peter sort of wanted to coo at him, just to see that face forever. He manfully refrained. Sort of. Could he manfully do anything when he didn’t have man-parts?

Note to Self: Ask Yondu next time they crossed paths to see if his head exploded.

Addendum: Do it from a healthy distance of a bazillion miles away. Cackle maniacally afterward. Observe to see if Yondu’s face went purple with rage and vowed to end his miserable existence. Again.

“You’re just mad she’s touching your stuff. You touch my stuff all the time and I don’t complain. Much.”

“I am Groot.” Drax crossed his arms sulkily and shrank an inch in Groot’s pot.

“Yeah, sure.”

Groot, clinging to Rocket’s back with sharp raccoon claws and probably ripping holes in Peter’s shirt, blinked calmly at them all. He had yet to say a word.

“Anybody think this’ll just wear off?” Peter asked without much hope.

“It seems unlikely,” Gamora offered, sheathing a knife in Drax’s boot. The last apparently because now she was reaching for the guns. Great.

“Hells no,” Rocket snorted. “When has our life ever been that easy?”

“All in favor of heading back to the last planet that offered us a celebratory feast with those really suspicious pineapples and seeing if they had anything to do with it?”

“What are pine-apples?” Gamora asked, tilting her head.

“Pineapples, one word. They’re a yellow Terran fruit that—”

“We didn’t eat no yellow Terran fruit, humie,” Rocket interrupted.

“Usually,” Peter corrected with a sigh. Everyone was always so literal and when they weren’t, they were impatient. Not like he had a leg to stand on in that department, though, so to speak. “They’re _usually_ a yellow Terran fruit, but these were black. They tasted fine except for that weird tingling when I ate it.”

“You felt that too?” Rocket went to drop into his normal seat before realizing it was too small for him. He scowled at it. “Thought it was just me.”

“Drax?” Peter inquired.

“I am Groot!” Drax replied and did a full-body wiggle.

“I, too, experienced a curious sensation when consuming the fruit,” Gamora looked interested in the conversation finally. On Drax, interest looked a lot like homicidal. “It was akin to a mouthful of electric sparks.”

“Fantastic,” Peter groaned. “So, all in favor?”

Five hands went up.

“Alright, let’s punch it.”

“Punch what?”

“I’m up for some punching. Punching faces. Punching kidneys. Punching _spines_.”

“I am Groot.”

“No, not, like, literal punch…” Peter sighed. “You know what, forget it. Let’s just go.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Troll Incident was basically Yondu chucking his small collection of Troll’s at Peter, who was hiding in a corner having his second nervous breakdown of the week, until eventually he started laughing. Later, Peter picked them all up and hid them in the bunk where he slept for about a month. There were pictures taken. It was adorable. Peter now gives Troll’s to Yondu as presents for pretty much every conceivable holiday and sometimes just because he feels like it as a kind of inside joke. The only person who mocked him for it was never seen again. Yondu keeps his favorites on his dashboard so he can see them all the time.


End file.
